


Sheet

by yeaka



Category: Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping (2016)
Genre: Ficlet, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conner gives Owen a not-gay olive branch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheet

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Odd noises are hardly out of place in their mansion— _Conner’s castle_ —so Owen pays most of it no mind, no matter how destructive or ridiculous the sound. There’s no point in earplugs—some days, Conner really is trying to wake him, and Owen wouldn’t want to miss his name being shouted over a dozen times and get demoted to a cab behind the tour bus again. So he rolls away from the door and consciously keeps his eyes closed, wondering vaguely when he’s going to become immune to it all. 

Somewhere around half an hour later, which could just as easily be ten minutes or a couple hours, the blaring ruckus finally dies out, and he thinks he’s finally out of the woods. Sleep’s really going to happen. He’s perhaps a third of the way there when he hears something outside his door. If he didn’t live with a bunch of Conner’s idiots, he’d probably be reaching for a bat, but he does and it’s probably just someone looking for Maximus.

Or Conner. Definitely Conner. The way he jerks open Owen’s door without even a pause to think of knocking is classic Conner, even before his self-aggrandized solo days. Owen doesn’t even bother to roll over, just grunts, “He’s not in here.” The words come out a little sleep-slurred; he’s still trying to slip off.

Conner, in typical Conner fashion, ignores him to the point of not even replying. The door’s shut, a tad more carefully than usual, and then there’re footsteps across the wooden floor, and Conner’s voice hisses, “Man, your floor’s so cold! When’re you gonna get a rug?”

“’Discourages burglars,” Owen grunts, pleased with himself for the quick thinking despite the glaring plot-hole that no one would rob his room when they could rob Conner’s. 

Conner obviously doesn’t see that twist, because he mutters, “Shit, that’s smart.” And Owen smiles against his best facial relaxation attempts, like he always does when Conner compliments him. Those compliments have gotten rarer, but they’ve never completely gone away. Maybe that’s why he sticks around through all the bullshit—Conner can still make him feel bizarrely _good_.

Then the bed dips down at the other end, and Owen finally opens his eyes before reaching over for the lamp on the nightstand. By the time he rolls over to see what’s going on, Conner’s already slipping under the blankets.

He shuffles ridiculously close, pushing at Owen in the process, and Owen lets himself be sidled up right to the edge of his bed, because he’s too in shock to stop it: Conner’s making room on his other side to tuck something in. Owen has to lift up on his elbow to peer over Conner and see in the low lamplight. Conner straightens out the ugly blow-up doll that’s made it to one-to-many parties, then turns his glowing grin on Owen, proclaiming, “My brain is a genius.”

Most of the time, that’s completely backwards. But there are rare days when Conner does manage something spectacular, so Owen patiently waits for the punch line.

“So we got a girl in the bed, right?” It sounds like a question, but Owen doesn’t answer, because he’s fairly certain a blow up doll doesn’t actually qualify as a woman, but Conner goes on anyway, “So we can sleep together and shit like we used to and it’s not gay.”

Owen stares at Conner blankly for a second. Under the covers, Owen can feel the slight scratch of Conner’s flannel pajama bottoms against his bare foot. Conner’s got a loose, black t-shirt on, and it takes Owen a second to register it’s a _Style Boyz_ shirt. Conner _never_ wears those. Owen didn’t even think he still had any. 

Maybe he saved it just for this. It tells the whole story already; Conner always wore it when he snuck into Owen’s bed or lured Owen into his. Owen always liked the reminder of their connection. But that all died out with their band, and now he’s half annoyed Conner even brought it up, even though _of course he still wants it._ He stuck with Conner all this time for a reason. He grunts, “If you mean _sleep together_ like we used to, that’s hella gay.”

“Not if there’s a girl in the bed,” Conner says, looking utterly convinced and pleased with himself. “That’s like, the definition of not gay. And if the paparazzi busts in through the window I can totally say it was dark and I thought you were the doll.”

“I’m nothing like that doll,” Owen snaps back somewhere between incredulous and annoyed.

“Nah, man, I know, that’s why I’m here—”

“You haven’t done this for _years_.”

“Well, I didn’t want the press to think I’m gay—”

With a ragged sigh, Owen accepts that there’s no sleep on tonight’s horizon. He shuffles completely onto his side, facing Conner at every point and horribly close—he can _feel_ Conner’s warmth, and God, Conner was always _so warm_ , and there’s something irritatingly alluring about the half-worn-out cologne that still clings to him—but Owen sucks in a breath and tries to explain, “Look, Conner, you wouldn’t even be gay, you’d be bisexual, we’ve been through this—”

Blank-faced, Conner interjects, “That just sounds gay.”

“It’s not. It’s a completely different thing. But _this_. This is pretty gay.”

“No, it’s not, that’s what I brought a girl for—”

“You’re literally in another man’s bed, wearing his shirt.”

“It’s not your shirt.”

“Well, I gave it to you.”

“Bullshit. If anyone did, it was Lawrence.”

“If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be wearing it, because you left him, like you left me.” And he didn’t mean to fully say that, but it’s true, and Conner looks so instantly hurt by it that Owen swells with regret and wishes he’d just kept his mouth shut like he usually does. It’s so hard to be anything but kind to Conner’s stupid puppy face. 

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Owen wonders why he can’t just accept a good thing. Even if the excuse was dumb, he could’ve just taken Conner. He should’ve. He should’ve refused to let all Conner’s other followers fill up their guest rooms, should’ve told Conner how he really felt, and maybe should’ve gone to Conner’s room first. 

Finally, Conner mumbles, looking downcast and away, “Look, man, I’m... I’m sorry, okay? I know you’ve been pissed at me lately...”

“Conner,” Owen starts, voice already wavering, _damnit_ , he has such a hard time fighting with Conner and never wants Conner to think he doesn’t have Conner’s back because he _does_... 

Conner just rolls on, “No, I know, I can tell—I didn’t listen to you about those awesome beats and I made you wear that heavy helmet, and I just... I’m trying to show you I still care about you, okay?”

The sincerity probably won’t last through til the morning. Owen still feels choked up. He has no defenses when it comes to Conner.

Conner clearly misunderstands his silence and adds, “Okay, I kinda missed it too.” When Owen’s still quiet, Conner amends, “Okay, fine, I came here for me, but I know you still like me, so you don’t have to be so ungrateful about it.”

Owen snorts. _That’s_ his Conner. He doesn’t know what to say that won’t ruin in, so he just rolls over again, first reaching to flick off the lamp, then settling. The blankets now have a distinct resistance when he tugs them due to being trapped under one of Conner’s arms.

Before Conner can mistake that too, Owen reaches back to grab that arm and tug it over his waist. He pulls Conner up to spoon him, and Conner, for all his confused sexuality, sidles up tight to Owen’s back. Conner’s legs poke almost aggressively around his, arm squeezing him in, chin hooking over his shoulder, clinging on so tightly that it’d take half Conner’s team to pull him off. Owen takes it for proof that Conner missed this as much as he did, and he lets Conner clutch at him like a life preserver. 

Even with all the nonsense, it feels blissfully _good_ again. Conner’s bare arms and feet and face are practically burning hot, his chin exactingly smooth against Owen’s neck and his cheek soft against Owen’s jaw. It’s all wondrously familiar, made better by Conner groping for his hand in the dark. Owen shifts into it and delights in Conner’s long fingers entertaining with his own. If the press ever did inexplicably break through the window, they’d never let Conner live this down. 

Owen doesn’t care. Conner mutters in his ear, already sounding half asleep, “’Night, Kid Contact.”

Owen mumbles, “G’night, Conner,” back. Then he shivers as Conner buries a yawn in his neck, followed by Conner nuzzling in and Owen trying not to squirm. He’d almost forgotten how _right_ this felt.

Conner falls asleep laughably fast—Owen can always tell when he’s dozed off. But Owen tries to stay awake as long as he can, savouring the moment while it lasts.


End file.
